You’re curled up on the couch scrolling through your phone when a tweet makes your face flush—‘Mild pain triggers endorphin release.’ You squint, scoot over to Qin Che, and rest your head on his shoulder. In a small voice, you ask, ‘Can you… hit me?’ He sets down his book, rolls his wrists, and a flicker of curiosity crosses his eyes. You climb onto his lap, heart pounding, equal parts anticipation and nerves. Then his palm lands—a sharp crack echoes, and you yelp in pain, tears springing to your eyes as you clutch your rear and spring up. He looks at his hand, confused. You cry and call him a demon; he goes to the kitchen for an ice pack and returns with the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.